


Deterrence Theory

by fluffykomodo (god_is_undead)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Corruption, Coup d'état, Descent into Madness, Dubious Morality, F/M, Fucked Up, Happy endings are a point of view, Hux Has No Chill, It Gets Worse, Kylo Ren Angst, Not A Fix-It, POV Original Character, Political Shenanigans, Scheming, Seduction to the Dark Side, Shenanigans, Slow Build, Slow Burn, This Is STUPID, What Was I Thinking?, dysfunctional, hux is a tarkin fanboy, i got tired of happy OC fics, my tags were better before they were deleted, normal girl x crazy circumstances yes i knows it's been done before, not a healthy normal relationship, sociopathic bonding, the Republic doesn't expect the spanish inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_is_undead/pseuds/fluffykomodo
Summary: "What if the reason we get so attached to fictional characters is because they were supposed to be our soulmates but were born in another universe""Obviously, I need to take a shotgun to the face, because all of my favorite characters are evil."This is...interesting. It is NOT a redemption fic, it is very much a corruption fic. Please be warned, bad things happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd apologize except I don't feel apologetic. 
> 
> I wrote this because I get tired of reading stories in which the sweet, happy OC rescues the evil, pretty character from the error of their ways. This is not that fic.
> 
> Hux has a destiny and he's not going to let a little thing like a conscience stop him from achieving it, and he will use every tool available to him to achieve it.

_The car was abandoned with the driver’s side door left open under the lights of a rural gas station. Police lights flashed red and blue around it, and Mia stood with her arms crossed and her feet planted as she stared down a pair of decidedly uninterested cops._

_“Vika wouldn’t run off into the woods,” Mia snapped angrily. “I can’t even get her to go camping. She won’t go anywhere if there’s not a shower and a bar, and this is the sticks.” There was no signs of a struggle and Vika would have put up a struggle if she were physically capable of it, which_ really _upset Mia. What could have possibly dragged Vika off? The other woman had nails and would go for the eyes._

_“Ma’am, you need to calm down—”_

_“No, you need to do your damn job!”_

_“People run off all the time.”_

_“Not. Vika. Vika doesn’t go anywhere without her phone, if she could have the damn thing embedded into her skin she would.” It was still in the cup holder, on the charger, notifications for ignored messages visible on the lock screen. Her money was still in her wallet. Mia wasn’t entirely sure that Vika wouldn’t just up and vanish one day, but this felt wrong._

_“Well, maybe it’s a boyfriend—”_

_“I’m telling you, that’s not it!” Mia snarled. “Vika doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would have told me. I would know.”_

_“You sure?”_

_They were so fucking_ lazy _. Mia just wanted to scream._

* * *

 

*

**_Far, far behind on the space-time continuum…_ **

The man standing in parade rest at the bottom of the ramp is, of course, known to me because I’ve seen the movie like ten times: tall, a burst of fire in a cold, cold world, overcast, a scene of white and black, with chilly white wisps swirling on the tarmac around the shuttle. I still haven't fully processed the notion that I've literally been kidnapped and dragged off in a spaceship by fictional characters to meet _more_ fictional characters—it feels kind of like I’ve fallen into a seriously intricate and lucid hallucination.

 More importantly (because it seems related to my life expectancy), I can hardly conceive of why. In fanfictions people tend to fall ass over end into their Playstations or simply duck into a closet and find Narnia, they _don't_ get deliberately kidnapped.

 I must be lingering unnecessarily; I hear and sense—not with the Force, but with that odd sixth sense all humans have—a vicious, looming presence behind me. Somehow, the icy cold drops in temperature even further.

 Kylo Ren takes a firm grip on my shoulder and shoves me forward. I stumble just a little but catch myself. The descent from Ren’s command shuttle is not long; the scene bears more of a resemblance to Vader’s arrivals in the OT, a narrow strip of free walking space is flanked with at least two hundred First Order Stormtroopers standing motionless at attention in the frigid wind. Ten officers in black uniforms have formed lines, five facing each other, just off the ramp.

I know what this is: as much a show of strength as a kind of welcome peculiar to military organizations, but an organization like the First Order would ramp the glitz up to 11. The bigger the crowd, the more elaborate the ordeal, the more important the visitor is.

Whatever this is, it qualifies as a Big Fucking Deal.

 The other option is Hux is going out of his way to intimidate me.

Okay, let's face it, that's unnecessary—I've been ready to pee myself for hours. The most he can hope to accomplish with this is give me an aneurysm and kill me before he gets to whatever he wants.

Or my head is just filling in the blanks because I’ve been reading way too much Kylux smut and I’m talking out my ass. That’s also possible. Worth a thought.

 Hux stands a good several inches taller than me and the effect is magnified by the fact he stands so straight, shoulders draped in a greatcoat of brushed wool so tightly felted that it appears sleek. I realize abruptly why the First Order uniforms have bothered me; they do appear to gleam, rather like black, brushed steel, the edges of their command caps stuck out starchily where the ones in the OT were tucked against the rest of the cap, like corrupted versions of their banal originals. _There's a better metaphor there._..

 Ren gives me one last push, towards the General, and stands still.

 All is silent save for the distant, keening wind that washes over us all. I have no idea what to do. I'm stuck. Part of me tells me to look him in the eye, part of me wants to retreat into attention myself and let my eyes unfocus as I had once been taught. What is the safer option here?

 Hot green eyes, the color of acid, travel over my face and form, and even though I'm literally wrapped up in a coat as long as his—not as nice, though; woven brown, kind of old, I'm always shaving off pills but I bought it at an antique store so it has a reason—and a nice dress, he looks severely unimpressed.

 Despite the absurdity of the situation I can't help but feel self-conscious. My hair is a mess but my eyeliner was on point this morning, though it's probably smudged all to hell. _Not looking my best to meet my Maker, shit_. My ghost outfit will suffer.

 “My reward, General,” Ren’s icy, modulated voice demands.

 Those eyes flash over my head a moment, narrowed. I've always found light eyelashes a little disconcerting, like looking at a photo negative in real life. His are no exception. They're a pale copper, the color less vivid than that of either the hair on his head beneath his command cap or that of his brows, and combined with his poison eyes the effect is striking.

 “In a moment, Ren.” His voice is sharp, the twisting of thorns around one's throat, beautiful and painful.

  _Why am I here? Can I run? Where would I run?_

 His gaze returns to me. “My lady.”

 My eyebrows have to have disappeared into my hairline and I stagger back a step, mouth open. I'm a normal person who shops at Wal-Mart and likes ranch dressing on pizza. I'm not a lady; _my lady_ is as inaccurate as it is alarming, and I can hear the patronization in his tone.

 I stare stupidly at his hand, which he has extended. It's gloved of course, and the glove is made of oiled leather and clinging to his slender flesh like a second skin. He barely seems real; he seems picture-perfect.

 _Do something, idiot_.

 I make myself extend my own hand, thinking he intends to shake it.

 I'm caught completely off guard when he suddenly and deftly snatches my hand out of the air and brings it to his lips.

  _Abort, abort! Mayday!_

 He doesn't actually press his mouth to my fingers, and I very vaguely recall a conversation with a friend almost ten years ago. It wasn't polite in some cultures to actually mash up against someone's hand; that would be virtually intimate. Over the line of my knuckles his burning eyes never leave me, and when he finally releases my hand I snatch it back, my face scarlet. In any case, the impression I get is of perfunctory form barely concealing dislike.

 “Welcome to Starkiller Base.”

 I look around in the pervasive silence. Not one other person has so much as twitched, and all that moves is the trees and the black-on-red First Order banners. I am seriously creeped the fuck out. Even the officers in formation have their thousand-yard stares nailed on. They’re not wearing greatcoats, the poor bastards.

 “You've got the wrong person,” I blurt desperately. That’s true. It has to be true. “I don't know what's happening, but--”

 “ _That’s enough_.”

 I flinch and shut my mouth, but Hux has already turned slightly to one side, a discreet gesture indicating that I should proceed towards the bright, white hangar in the near distance.

 “We may continue inside.”

 I hesitate precariously, my eyes huge and blinking. I reach up suddenly, remove my glasses with one hand and slap myself _hard_ across the face with the other. Yeah, I'm awake. 

 This is insane. It’s insane. It's not possible.

 First of all, even if it is possible that these people, this place exists, General Armitage Hux would never fucking sending Kylo Ren to get _me_ , for many, many, _many_ reasons.

 I take a step back, my breathing short and shallow. Blood rushes in my ears.  

 The General’s gaze doesn't leave me, but he does turn back to face me fully.

 “Calm yourself,” he commanded, placing his hands behind his back. “You are in no danger here.”

  _Like_ _hell I'm not!_

 Ren shifts behind me and I flinch again. I can't run. I _can't_. If Ren doesn’t stop me, the Stormtroopers would. If the Stormtroopers fail to catch me, I’m stuck in an icy hell. I’m fairly resilient against the cold, but I can’t escape the planet I had seen and recognized on approach. I still don’t know how the fuck I haven’t had an absolute balls-out breakdown yet.

 Breaths. Deep breaths. I might be twitchy but I'm not an idiot. I can handle this. I _will_ handle this.

 I blink slowly again. It's hard. I want to scream and sob in terror and pitch the mother of all tantrums until they send me back home. And it's there, simmering beneath the skin. I can practically feel myself tremble.

But I _can’t_. That will get me dragged off no matter what I do, and I’d rather face whatever is coming on my feet.

 Hux actually offers his arm.

 _Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, don't touch me_. I'm horrified, but it appears I'm leaving this tarmac one way or another, and antagonizing my hosts doesn’t seem like a good idea if I ever plan on finding a way out of this mess, whatever it is.

 I stand a little straighter. This is pageantry, and I recognize it if not have ever actually played a part in it. Come to find out I find it strangling.

  _So play into it. Figure out how to escape, preferably before the Resistance blows up Starkiller._

 Cautiously, I step forward, and gingerly extend my right arm, unable to hide my misgivings, but my willingness seems to please him.

 As he tucks my arm into his he looks over his shoulder at Ren.

 “Well done, Ren,” Hux sneers. “You'll have your payment.”

 Ren says nothing and doesn't move as Hux leads me away. I glance back once, anxiously.

 “Pay him no mind,” Hux says, calmly.

Before I can stop myself: “He has a laser sword and can kill me with his mind,” I retort flatly. "I don't think _don't worry about it_ cuts it." My disquiet is perfectly logical and I don't like being told otherwise, as if I were a child.

 Hux stills, drawing to a stop in the midst of his men.

 I don't move. I. Do. Not. Move. It's quite possible I stop breathing.

 He leans down slightly, close enough to whisper into my ear.

 “I strongly suggest that you learn to curb your tongue.”

 I swallow hard. He has no love for Ren, but he also doesn't appreciate sass.

 Since 95% of all communication I willingly engage in is in some shade of sarcasm, I'm definitely in trouble.

 “Yes, sir. General.”

 Because bending like a reed is preferable to being snapped in half like a tree.

 “Armitage. You are...welcome to use my given name.”

 My head snaps to the side in shock fast enough to catch the faint grimace of disgust in his eyes and I wonder at that as he begins to walk again. 

* * *

 

*

“I would greatly appreciate being told what is going on,” I say very slowly and deliberately, having picked those words carefully on our way here. “Please—er, Armitage.” I make sure to sound polite. It's awkward for both of us but he has asked me to use it, after all. I should oblige him, play into what he wants, whatever that is.

 _Here_ is a large, spartan, but comfortable room with a spectacular view of Starkiller’s snowscape. I don’t know what room it is; it looks like a lounge, or it could be anything else.

He’s led me here, and for the first time, we’re alone, and in the relative silence and privacy I feel slightly less overwhelmed. I stand near the door while he immediately lets go of me and moves away.

The first thing he does is pour himself a rather overfull drink from a decanter in the corner, which he downs with a gulp. Then he lifts his face again and looks at me. It takes him close to a minute to speak, during which I stand quietly and wait.

 “We are…” He grimaces, openly revulsed. “ _Soulmates_.”

 I blink.

I blink again. It’s a nice, comfortable temperature in here. Huh. Imagine that.

The word sinks into me, settles in my gut, an ugly little miasma between shock and disbelief and the urge to die laughing at the sheer non-sequitur lunacy of the statement. He can't be serious.

It's not _possible_. That is so _stupid_. This entire situation is impossible and this is what he has to tell me?

_Soulmates, really?_

 “Yeah, right,” I say, bluntly. This conversation has taken a true turn for the surreal, might as well go along for the ride with my hands safely tucked in. “If there is such a thing as soulmates—” _And I don't believe there is_ , “I'm not _your_ soulmate.”

 He's a fun character to fantasize about I guess, if domineering, arrogant men telling you what to do or power bottoming like hell is your kink, but that is _as far as it goes_. 

The look he gives me is unmistakably disgusted. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

 So, there it is. He's not happy, I'm certainly not happy…

 “Why am I here, _exactly_ ,” I say, my voice in that rare low, soft cadence of barely restrained anger. _Bitch, I will bite your fucking face off. Don’t you dare act like this is my fault. Stop sneering at me_. “You must have some idea of what you’re going to do with me.”

“I have been ordered to produce an heir.”

Oh.

Oh.

 _Fuck that. I will bite your dick off, damn the torpedoes_.

 “By who—er, whom?”

 “By Supreme Leader Snoke.”

Yeah, that's not any great surprise. If anyone could make Hux do anything, it's Snoke.

It vaguely surprises me that he’s telling the truth. “Any particular reason you couldn't just pay somebody to have your kid?” I say. “Because the joke’s on you; I can't have kids. Can't have ‘em. Don't want ‘em.”

 His head snaps up in surprise and I wonder, with a sudden and vicious spasm of righteous indignation, if he is going to tell me I don't seriously not want kids or something equally obnoxious.

 “I have no desire for children, myself; my life is the Order,” he admits with shocking candidness, green eyes on mine. My own eyes are green as well, but a darker, almost grayer shade. “But I had hoped to avoid the...messier complications of joining myself to anyone with whom I am incompatible.” That sounds like bullshit based on what I know of him, and oddly…ill-chosen. It doesn’t help that I can read voices and body language and it’s not convincing me. Why is he lying now?

I perceive that he has attempted to welcome me (in his own quasi-North Korea way) and has been giving answers freely, so why lie now…unless he thinks that to tell the truth it would damage his position. But exactly what could be worse than the whole soulmates tripe...

 I start ticking off my fingers. “Okay, here's a list of shit that makes no sense about this.

“Number one, this is stupid. Loads of people get on just fine without soulmates or whatever.

“Number two, why does anyone care whether you have kids? You're a General, and no offense but ambition isn't genetic. It would make far more sense to make Kylo Ren fuck somebody.

“And number three, why don't I just make this easy on everyone? I'm not hooking up with you, but if it saves trouble I am perfectly willing to subject myself to having some eggs removed and fertilized in a petri dish. Find a surrogate and you're home free—it's also better for ensuring a pregnancy, I imagine.

 “That way, everybody wins. Actually, if you just went ahead and took both ovaries, I would be super grateful.”

 From the way he stares at me that was _not_ the anticipated answer. The jury was out on whether it was a good answer, because it could go either way.

 “Would you like a drink?” he finally asks briskly, drumming his fingers on his glass as he jerked back to life.

 _Bless his_ _heart_ , I think snidely _._  “Absolutely.” No hesitation where alcohol is involved. I fucking need one.

He considers me carefully. “Then I hope you drink whiskey.”

 “Neat. Please and thank you.”

 He pours into a second crystal glass and hands it to me, and I’m _slightly_ irritated that it’s less than he poured for himself. He refills his glass before setting down the decanter.

 I sip it experimentally. Some whiskey is very peaty, and tastes like smoke and dirt. I have to be in the right mood. This is sweet as sin and buttery, and slides over my tongue with tastes of caramel and bitter chocolate, subtly spicy. I stop before I drink it all, because _damn_. The man was a genocidal prick, but he had good taste.

 “You're willing to undergo an oophorectomy?” Hux asks, as if discussing the weather, but it's business. He's watching me, all cold eyes and appraisal. It amuses me that he uses the right word for it.

 “Just put me under for it and make sure I feel nothing, and you're welcome to them.” 

 “Of course,” he nods. “I had not anticipated such...practicable cooperation.”

 “Send me home afterwards and we're even.” I'm feeling ballsy.

 “That may not be possible for several months at least,” he admits officiously. “Nor are we scheduled to be in this sector when the anomaly reemerges.”

 “Because the Finalizer is the only spaceship in the galaxy,” I reply dryly. “Send Ren again.”

 “I think not. The price of his cooperation is much too high.”

 _Oh, is that so? Well, I’ll have to find Plan B_. “So why does it have to be me, anyway? I have a hard time believing you're really into the emotional aspects.”

This time he thinks over his drink a moment before choosing to be honest, which is a little frightening.

 “A prophecy,” Hux sneers, a bitter, restrained savagery in his eyes.

 This man is cold. Rational. Empirical ( _oh wow did I just make a pun? I'm so proud of myself_ ). The Force and its magics, its prophecies, don't factor into his mind. He's at the mercy of a command he thinks is the definition of stupid, but is compelled to obey anyway.

I quite agree with him that the whole ordeal is idiotic.

 My eyebrows crawl up on my head, and I throw back the rest of this phenomenal alcohol.

 “Fuck prophecies,” I say, because my other option is _why the fuck do you listen to a guy who has to pull a Wizard of Oz shtick to be taken seriously anyway?_

And I am not _that_ ballsy.

To my surprise, he salutes me with his glass, and throws his back, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux is an efficient individual and likes it when things move quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who was so kind as to leave kudos and comments! I really didn’t expect any kind of response for something I just whipped out after too much Pinteresting, lol.
> 
> So, uh, I kind of feel bad because I have a general outline for where and how this fic is going to go, but I’m not the kind of writer (or person) who’s great with detailed chapter-by-chapter plans. So if my initial intentions for pacing or placement conflict with what works out in the end, you’re going to have to forgive me, but I’ll rarely just drop a point. I have strategy, not tactics, is what I mean.
> 
> The code is more what you’d call ‘guidelines.’ – Captain Barbossa
> 
> Also, Kylo Ren wanted attention.
> 
> Sorry not sorry. *runs the fuck away*

“So, what’s this prophesy say?” I ask, trying to look casual as I tilt my glass to the side to let the remnants of the whiskey pool. I weigh the pros and cons of upending it so the last drops could slide to my tongue. Special rung in hell and all that.

“A child born of myself and my…soulmate,” he struggles to get the word out, I sympathize, “Will rule the galaxy from one side to the other.”

Well, it’s honesty, though I’m starting to suspect his honesty isn’t something I want to hear.

I wait for the punch line.

A couple of seconds later I’m still waiting and it finally clicks.

I clear my throat, and sniff, stalling, having successfully been pulled away from mulling over the demise of the single finger of whiskey he’s deigned to give me (the cheap ginger bastard). “That is…exceptionally vague and unconvincing.” _As in, what the actual fuck?_ “Are you serious?”

The gears in my head are wheeling, churning.

“ _Snoke_ put you up to this, right?”

“Supreme Leader Snoke, yes,” he says, watching me ( _syew_ preem leedah—he lays that accent on thick, doesn’t he?). “He is the supreme commander of the First Order.”

“He outranks you but wants you to have a kid who will rule the galaxy from one side to the other. He must be pretty…uh…” I search for a good word. There’s something ugly and abstracted in Hux’s eyes, and I start to suspect I’ve abruptly overstayed my welcome, “Altruistic…” _Leave it open for him to fill in the blanks_. 

His mutable eyes glitter. I try not to think how close to blue they look. _There’s shit I don’t know about and won’t be told, isn’t there? Balls, of course there is._

“I trust you have no objection to starting the process as quickly as possible?” he says, bluntly, derailing all of my thoughts.

All I manage is an ineloquent “ _Huh?_ ”

“Unless you do have an objection?” His tone implies it’s a facetious question.

“An objection to _what!_ ”

“Rather than undergo a pregnancy yourself, you suggested that you undergo an ovarian removal.” He speaks slowly, as if I’m a particularly stupid child, which annoys me, but I'm perfectly distracted.

Oh.

Right, that.

I shake my head to clear “Right now? Well, I mean—” I falter, awkwardly. The idea that I could literally be doing this in a matter of minutes is bewilderingly sudden, and my immediate impulse is to tell him no. I don't actually like surgery.  _But,_ no _, you suck it the fuck up and do what he wants. Just think of all the sex you can have and not panic about._ I’m still shaken when I look up, but I’m calm. “Yes. Yes, now is fine.” Wasn’t what I was planning on what to do when I woke up this morning, but here we are anyway.

Apparently satisfied, Hux nods decisively, pivots on his heel, and strides away to a view screen embedded in the wall.

I watch, uncertain and for the moment forgotten. So I stand there turning the glass in my hands, watching the little dredge of golden liquid. _Do I, do I not_ …

Do I give a shit what he’d think if I did?

 _Nnnnope_.

He’s had me kidnapped and is getting a free set of ovaries. He better mind his business.

The last drop falls sweet on my tongue as Hux opens a channel to speak with some man wearing blinding white in front of a blinding white background. The First Order is a world of stark oversaturation; black, white, scraps of other colors.

“General Hux,” the man says, tinny voice revealing very little in the way of surprise.

“Major Arnd. Is your staff capable of performing an oophorectomy?”

The man, impressively, doesn’t even twitch. There’s a slow pause. “Yes, General,” he replies. “My staff is fully qualified to perform such a procedure.”

“Excellent,” Hux says. “Make the arrangements, Major. I want it done as soon as possible. How quickly can it be completed?”

It’s a physical effort to restrain myself from speaking as my eyebrows slowly rise on my forehead, and I can’t fully stop myself from shifting nervously on my feet. The man on the other end of the line reacts with perfect phlegmatic apathy, as if weird shit like this happened every day. Maybe it did.

“Ideally, we would need a day or two to prep the patient—”

“That is not fast _enough_ , Major.”

“Unless failing to perform surgery immediately would incur a significant risk to the patient's life, we usually perform examinations and assessments before the patients go into theater. They are necessary in order to assess risk factors for cardiac, pulmonary, or infectious complications. At the very least we will need a medical history and a physical—blood type identification, at the barest minimum.”

Hux glances at me.

I realize only slowly that I am actively being told to contribute to this conversation, and cross the floor to stand and look up at the screen, still clutching my empty tumbler. Does Hux intend to make me go into surgery without any tests? Really?

“My blood type is O positive,” I say. “And…and I have an allergy to Zinafel. It’s a cephalosporin.” It’s probably irrelevant, but I am deathly allergic to this one random thing and so some people refuse to give me penicillin because it’s a relative; the man only stares at me.

“What is a cephalosporin?” he asks. His inflection makes it obvious what part of that he’s asking about. _All of it_.

I blink. Well, come to think of it, I don’t guess I could walk into space Walgreens and get space Tylenol, either.

“General, I strongly suggest we run a full pathology.”

We both look to the General, whose displeasure is obvious in the lines of his face and the clench of his jaw.

“I’m not interested in delays,” Hux says flatly. “Run the blood type if you must, but the rest is an excessive waste of time.”

My mouth drops open.

“With respect, General,” the man replies, “The time it takes to perform these tests is minimal compared to the risk to the patient’s life if we do not.”

If I didn’t know any better the _bitch_ is weighing the odds. Fun fact: gingers feel more pain and require about 20% more anesthesia. How much would it hurt if I threw this glass at his face?

“Major Arnd, it seems unnecessary. She appears perfectly healthy.”

“It’s not _about_ me being healthy. It’s about avoiding possible life-threatening complications during surgery! A couple of days isn’t going to make a difference!”

His eyes snap to me. I’m willing to bend on many things but _my life_ is kind of a zero-sum concept, and I find it hard to fully repress my anger. _I’m going to bite his dick off regardless_.

“We can expedite the process, General. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours; I estimate we can have her in theater early tomorrow morning.”

“ _How_ early, Major?”

“I should think zero-six-hundred,” the Major replies with bland thoughtfulness. “That will give us enough time to run the labs and get results back.”

“Very well. Make the arrangements; I will have her brought to you immediately.”

This has all progressed very fast, and on some level, it’s _too_ fast. Even so, I can handle this. I can handle this because I _have_ to handle this, no one else will help me.

But the irritation I’ve stoked to life in Hux doesn’t dissipate when the communications connection is cut; he is suddenly looming over me, all-consuming fire in this bleak world. I freeze in place and awareness shrinks to a pale face hanging over mine, contorted and ugly in its anger, upper lip curling back to reveal a fraction of a white tooth and conveying the full spectrum of his contempt.

“Your role here is so finite as to be _meaningless_. I will not tolerate any further defiance. Do I make myself clear?” Incandescent seething lurks behind that otherwise still face and green plasma eyes, and he unleashes a shade of open hostility, but his voice is above all steady, even _quiet_. I can hear the _if you put one more fucking toe out of line you will_ find out _how I got to be The General before I got my first gray hair_.

My voice is faint and hoarse when I finally manage to speak, and I’m unable to tear my eyes away. “Y-yes, sir…”

I flinch when his hand shoots out without warning, but he only snatches the glass out of my hand and turns away so precisely it’s closer to an about-face than not, and strides to the desk. Whatever he says into the intercom I don’t hear.

My breaths come short and shallow, and I manage to turn away, gain some mental distance.

Minutes ago, the man had told me we were supposed to be soulmates. The very thought, knowing it’s impossible and _I’m here based on that fucking bit of idiotic pretense_ and just the general fucking notion of it, makes me physically ill. I can’t even imagine, assuming that I somehow forgot that soulmates are bullshit, how the fuck I might even possibly could be _that man’s_ soulmate.

He’s an evil fucking space fascist, for Christ’s sake.

And what’s my intended role in this—what, does the universe think I can turn this hot mess into a decent human being? That’s a tall order, I can’t even figure my own problems out. Or am I supposed to be arm candy purposed with excusing and further enabling his utter inability to not be a raging asshole? _Oh god am I turning into my mother?_ The second notion sends a frisson of sickened and almost self-directed fear through me.

My legs feel weak. As my fight or flight instinct fades I’m left in a limbo of elevated anxiety and the dawning realization that I’m deep in the shit. I mean—I _knew_ it, but…

But oh my god, this is happening.

 _Deep breaths. Keep breathing, idiot, or you’re going to hyperventilate and probably wake up in a bathtub of ice_. More like dumped outside in the snow. It’s cold enough out there to make no difference.

 _Just keep breathing and go with it_ …

Policing myself is getting increasingly difficult; my mind has, at least, reached enough of an ad hoc compromise with the sheer dissonant impossibility of my situation to start to turn over the realities of what might lie ahead.

The reality of my situation is this:

I have to do what he wants or he’ll kill me. What little I know of Armitage Hux boils down to this: he’s enormously ambitious, amoral, and unsentimental. Being his soulmate is as pointless in _actually having to deal with the man_ as nipples on the Batman suit.

I concentrate on breathing, grateful Hux doesn’t have Force powers to throttle me senseless—as it is he’d have to lay hands on my person to do that, and he’s pretty clearly not the touchy type, mendacious attempts at pacification aside.

 _I’ve got to find a way off this fucking thing. NOW_.

Hux, finished summoning his minions, looks back at me, that neutral mien back in place, but he does always look like he’s watching someone not use a coaster. I grimace and fold my coat around me; distantly, it registers that this is a self-protecting gesture that would look like an attempt to hide without hiding, even more so when I fold my arms over my chest and turn my body away from him, only keeping check on his position with a turned head, though I don’t look directly at him.

I can’t help the battered exhaustion that leaches into my internal thoughts. _What does he want now?_ The strain of this encounter—the endless touch and go—

His eyes narrow.

The door hisses open and four Stormtroopers led by a man in a light gray uniform arrive.

I guess the meeting’s over.

* * *

 

*

Yet another white-uniformed doctor walks into the painfully white examination room, behind him a droid bearing a tray full of—

 _Needles. Why did it have to be needles_ …

I feel the blood drain from my face. My fingers curl hysterically around the edge of the examination table, knuckles blanching white as the white all around me. My stomach twists, the dull ache in my head persists. No. It’s gotten worse. Definitely worse. They’ve given me all the water I ask for, which helps some, but no food and I’m pretty sure it’s not dehydration but the sheer oppressive _whiteness_ of everything around me.

The doctor eyes me critically. “Lie down,” he says. “I won’t have you fainting.”

“I’ve never fainted while having blood drawn.” I may be miserable, and whatever time it is on Starkiller it had been almost midnight on Earth (and it’s been _hours_ ), but I have a stronger stomach than that.

“Oh? Well, there is a first time for everything and I don’t want to think of what the General might do if you hurt yourself.”

“Order a posthumous surgery?” I suggest, deadpan.

He snorts, a smile twisting at his mouth. “I don’t suggest giving him an excuse.”

 _Touché_.

I stretch out on my back and force myself to look at the ceiling instead. I drum my fingers on my belly, fidgety and preoccupied.

“Excuse me, I should have introduced myself first,” he says, casually. “I’m Major Hirde. I’m the assistant chief medical officer on Starkiller.”

I glance to one side, at him. Major Arnd had turned out to be the chief medical officer. No one sends assistant chief medical officers to do bitch work like blood draws unless necks are on the chopping block. _Or they’re curious and it’s an excuse_. It could go either way.

“Um…Vika. I’m unemployed.” Seems easier than explaining what a liberal arts degree is, or why someone would go in for an advanced one. On top of that I find myself reluctant to share anything about myself with these people.

Really, it’s the last refuge I have.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’d heard a young woman arrived on the planet for the General, brought by Kylo Ren. I thought it was just scuttlebutt.” He shoots a grin over his shoulder at me. And at any other time his smile might have been endearing; now it’s just upsetting. It’s sincere, but he’s not even trying to be subtle about lowkey interrogating me.

“It’s fine,” I say slowly, shrugging. I watch Hirde as he sits at a 90˚ angle from my own perspective, prepping needles and tubes. He’d _heard_ a young woman arrived? There had been a lot of Stormtroopers lined up in formation, officers, too, for the arrival itself to be a shock, even if I’d believe nobody knows the details—do they keep banners in a spring-loaded casing, just to pop them out for an impromptu speech whenever Hux feels the urge?

Hirde glances at me again. “And you’re scheduled for an ovarian removal tomorrow morning...”

I refuse to give him the answers he’s so obviously seeking: _what is going on_. The topic sours on my tongue. Let them hang themselves on their curiosity and ask Hux if they’re so damn curious. The longer I can ignore it, the calmer I am, the less angry and scared.

For a given value of calm.

There are some arguments I’m not equipped to win head-on. An argument with Hux where I stand in the way of something he wants, well, I lose that every time.

Granted, the _content_ of what I’m doing isn’t something I can bring myself to actively regret—if this kid is getting born one way or the other, it’s not going to be out of my vagina—it’s the fact that I’m stuck here and god knows what that’s going to mean. _Please don’t put me in a cell. If the Resistance blows up Starkiller, I’m as good as those poor bastards in steerage on the Titanic_.

“A surgery to have your ovaries removed,” he remarks slowly, as if repeating the words often enough will make them believable. Then it snaps up back into a professional timbre. “You’ll have to go on estrogen supplements until you hit menopause.”

I make some sound of comprehension, but I have nothing particularly interesting to say about it. _At least he’s talking about the future_. Now that I think about it, I don’t trust Hux not to tell them to let me die in surgery; he’d certainly showed no concern about pre-op testing.

Hirde sighs, but rolls over to me on his stool, a strip of stretchy blue rubber in hand and a stress ball. I know the routine; I wiggle out of my coat. He rolls up my sleeve then straps me just above the elbow, and rubs the inside of my elbow with an alcohol and iodine swab.

“Here. Squeeze this.” He puts the stress ball into my hand and positions my arm. Everything is so like what I know and yet completely different that the effect is to be as cognitively jarring as possible; they have droids but no other recourse than to draw blood. Behind Hirde, the droid whistles and beeps some kind of question. Even the droid is mostly white; white and silver, with traces of black. “No, Ee-six.” He glances at me again.

The silence stretches on for more than four seconds, as Hirde scooches closer to pinch and prod at the inside of my elbow, searching for a vein. I turn my face to the ceiling again, squint against the oppressive brightness all around me. I hate having blood drawn. I’ve had it done multiple times and it’s never stopped making my skin crawl.

The faint sting of the needle biting into my skin is met with no more than the faintest tremor. Hirde is masterful about it, and I’ve been told I have nice, big veins. As often as I’ve had blood drawn and as much as I hate it, it’s lucky I’ve got a circulatory system even an intern can’t fuck up. That being said, how have they not figured out how to avoid bloodwork in this universe, I mean really. Maybe my head just wants to subconsciously make this as traumatic as possible for me in my coma-dream.

I glance over, my eyes drifting down momentarily to the needle, taped flat but still with a slight bulge where the needle is beneath the flesh, and I flinch away from the sight of it, turning my eyes to Hirde instead.

He works quickly, with practiced movements. I feel the unsettling drag—I swear I feel it, don’t ask me how—as my blood rushes out of me through the tube into the vial.

It’s like a train wreck, horrible and fascinating at the same time. It’s always made me just a hair nauseous but I’m never able to look away for long. My blood flows viscously into the little vial, dark, and so red, something tangible I’m leaving on this not-real planet. When it’s full he stems the flow and detaches the first vial, reaches for the second.

Meanwhile, my thoughts drift, and, as is happening quicker and worse as time ticks by, my eyes grow heavy and I shiver. I know what that is, at least; I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been awake but it’s more than 24 hours at this point. It’s really starting to take its toll.

I’ll never know exactly how long it’s been since a huge, masked man in flowing black robes strode purposefully out of the woods _right at me_ (not something any lone woman ever wants to see), but I’m starting to feel really twitchy and weak, and things are starting to look and feel more like I’m drunk. It had been almost midnight, and it’s barely midafternoon on Starkiller Base.

So far, I _can_ pin down the three hours I’ve endured being tested by an apparently bottomless source of unfamiliar faces, each one as transient as the next, each one with a specific purpose in reworking the stars to do their General’s bidding.

The General.

 _So, am I deciding that this is real and that I have to face up to that_ , I ask myself. Because if so…

If I am, then it implies a backlog of byzantine ramifications I lack the ability to sort out, and that only adds to my distress. I don’t even fucking know where to start.

This whole scenario should have ceased to be a cute exercise in pretty characters and imaginary body counts long before now. There is a tacit and comfortable difference between fiction and reality, one which—just as a crazy example—embraces Kylux but rejects shipping Heydrich and Eichmann with a violent curdle of stomach acid.

I’ve had fiction yanked viciously out of my hands.

Reality isn’t supposed to work this way; the many-worlds theory still demands that the laws of physics be obeyed, and Star Wars…well, I suppose Clarke’s Third Law could apply? But the multiple worlds can only be reflections of known universes…

Star Wars is known…

 _As fiction_.

Well, I’m not a physicist of any shade. I have no idea what I’m talking about, and now that’s frustrating for all new reasons. I have confidence in my ability to find a solution if I had anything to work with, but I don’t. All I know is that Hux mentioned some kind of an _anomaly_. Something that needs to be found, since we’re apparently leaving the area…

Something with a fucking location that isn’t always open.

Something that is probably very classified.

My headache only intensifies.

Hirde works in silence, and I close my eyes, finding solace at least for a moment to let my head stop spinning. The droid with him beeps, but Hirde ignores it.

It’s not very long before he’s finished, and I wince again as he gently slides the needle out of my arm. I shudder visibly as he presses a square of gauze into it.

“Hold that in place,” he says, so I do. He turns away as I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge. He’s arranging the vials and packaging the twist of my hair, and looks up again. “Don’t get up. Wait a minute.”

“I’m fine.”

“I said _stay_.”

Did he just—like I’m a dog?

“How much more of this shit is there going to be?” The words are nakedly sullen.

Hirde sighs and rises from his stool. “Wait here—don’t move. I’ll go and see what else we need to do.”

He vanishes out the door, leaving me with the droid, who beeps and trills curiously at me before falling silent.

“Uh…sorry. I don’t understand that.”

The answering whistle is regretful and slow.

I sit quietly, trying hard _not_ to think of anything really important. If I want to maintain any kind of composure, it’s important to keep my thoughts centered on the immediate moment.

Thoughts off of things like…

A loud crash outside the door and the startled yelp of a woman make me lift my head in alarm. I’d be willing to write it off as a workplace accident if not for the scream of red hot metal quenching in water, a horrible crackling that permeates even the door of this examination room.

A lightsaber. There’s only one person who wields one of those on Starkiller.

I don’t move even as the activity out the door gets closer, like I’m a deer in the headlights, and when the door slides open, I’m still incapable of it, at the crackling red, crossbarred evidence of _oh my god this has to be some kind of dream let me **wake up**_ —

Ren strides forward, right up to me—I’m too petrified to move—and thrusts something white and blue in my face, bearing down with a malevolent presence. The man is _enormous_ , very tall and very broad, that snouted mask a sinister façade. Others pile in behind him, hanging back by the door, except one.

“This is written in High Galactic,” Ren says, a horrible non-sequitur.

_What?_

It comes out flatly, a counterstatement of fact. “That’s written in English.” Because it is and…(what is High Galactic, unless it’s what we’re speaking, in which case why is he saying so), what kind of fucked up game are we playing…

Wait.

 _Shit_. My heart slams hard into my chest, and I feel my head get very tight.

I stare at the book’s cover, struck dumb; beside the golden logo, the blue of Thrawn’s skin and the piercing scarlet of his one visible eye is another, bold splash of color and life, a strange polar opposite of Hux, who arrives and stands beside Ren, composed but a livewire, hands behind his back as he waits.  Oh man, if I thought he’d been pissed before…

An incredulous, terrified laugh bubbles up in my chest; this situation has now gone beyond the pale of even what I thought was possible.

 _How did he even get that? Did he have it the whole fucking time on the shuttle? Why hasn’t—How did he even know_ —where did he get that?

That’s right, I realize, now appalled; my copy had been sitting in the passenger seat of my car; I can see the receipt sticking out of it, the bookmark. God only knows why he waited this long to say anything.

 _Come to think of it, Kylo Ren’s a mind-reader. I’ve definitely been thinking sassy things about Star Wars and daddy issues, so how haven’t I been_ …

My throat suddenly constricts, my giggling dampened with a squeak. I blink rapidly, for a moment failing to comprehend. Kylo Ren stands over me, his arm outstretched and fingers bent like claws. I swallow, hard.

The other people in the room save Hux flinch and strap on blank, strained looks. Hux just watches with a wrathful silence.

It’s shock that registers first, utter disbelief. _I’m_ actually _being Force-choked_. The notion that this could actually _kill_ me is slightly slower to occur (never said I was smart), and when it does I feel kind of like I did for the car wreck—along for the ride, a watcher in a body dying a death that doesn’t come instantly. Though I’ve known since I was a child that when you’re choked with the Force there’s nothing there, my hand leaps up reflexively, some deep genetic memory. All I feel is skin, the stifled twitch of the flesh as I try, and fail, to breathe.

 _Well shit_ , I think, _this is happening. This_ can’t be real _, but—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…hopefully that wasn’t too much of a disappointment. 
> 
> Next chapter: you know what, I’m just going to give up on this and let things hash out naturally. I don’t stick to plans very well. You know shit’s about to go down to the tune of Vika and the No Good, Very Bad Day. So. Sit back and enjoy the shitshow.
> 
> Ps, Finals are cunts but Tarkrennic gives me life. Ice King + Drama Empress = fffff (I am trash. Compact me.)


End file.
